Hard
by Vernon Danforth
Summary: You want it inside you. Hard.


Depression kicks in, and you take a pill.  
You seem to hate yourself more and more every day, don't you?  
Another. This one; an aide.  
You're dead downstairs. You know what I'm talking about.  
You've been like a limp noodle for over a year now. Cold and dead. Only for waste purposes.  
Toss the pill into the air and try to catch it with your mouth.  
Failure.  
It bounces off your face and lands on your leg, rolling between your legs. Tumbling into the depths of the crevice between the couch cushion and your legs. Wedge your fingers underneath you.  
You're not exactly sure why you took to taking drugs for it, but you did.  
Two kinds. You started with a size enhancement that you've been taking recklessly too much of. It's supposed to help with erectile dysfunction, too, but your results have been nothing but failure. It was then you decided to move on to a more direct approach.  
Call it an impulse.  
Call it depression.  
Call it events set into motion by an unknown force.  
Call it whatever you want.  
"You ready?" she asks impatiently.  
"Not yet" you tell her.  
You pour two shots. One for yourself, and one for your company.  
Hold the shot out. She declines.  
Shrug.  
Down the first shot and stuff the blue pill into your mouth. Wash it down with the next shot.  
"You ready yet?"  
"Damn woman, give it some time"  
"I don't have all day"  
"You'll get your god damn money, okay? Chill the fuck out."  
The only light in the room flickers from the Tv. Some cheating show. Some girl crying about her boyfriend's infidelity. Some shit head feeding off her tears.  
You take a couple more pills.  
You can already feel it hardening. Skin tightening. Arteries relax and dilate as it fills with blood. They are expanded and hardened, constricting the outward flow. For the first time in about a year, you have an erection. Oh, how the mighty have fallen.  
Take another shot, and turn to the whore on the couch next to you. Lean in and kiss her, gently guiding her off the couch and onto her knees. You don't know this yet, but she has herpes. Expect cold sores to show up in a week or so.  
"You know, you could have had a freebie like a year and a half ago-"  
"Shut the fuck up, Amy"  
You drunkenly fumble around the material in the darkness for the button on your pants. You couldn't exactly be sure when you started wearing pants, either. You just did. Don't question it.  
Finally manage to locate and free yourself. Pull pants and underwear down to your ankles. Jeans resting on your shoes.  
"Is there something wrong with you?"  
"What the fuck do you mean by that?"  
She points at your erection and what you see makes your heart skip a beat. It would seem the pills delivered on their promise. It's definitely bigger. Just not normal, anymore. Instead, it looks swollen and bruised. You tense it and it stings terribly. It looks something like if your cock had elephantiasis.  
"Fuck it" you say "let's do this"  
"I can't. I can't blow you like that."  
"Why not?!"  
"Look at that thing, Sonic! I couldn't fit a third of that disfigured monstrosity in my mouth!"  
"Let's just get this shit over with, okay?"  
"Fuck this. I'm out of here. I've had enough, you hear me? Enough!"  
She gets up and storms towards the door. You get up to chase after her, forgetting your pants restricted movement as you attempt to run and stumble sideways. Sprawl out onto the carpet, cradling yourself.  
"WAIT!"  
She stops at the door and turns around. She stares at you for a few minutes. She bleeds pity all over the place, as she makes her way across the room to come help you up.  
"Just a hand job, okay? I'll pay the full amount, but I just need something"  
She sighs and nods. On the inside, she hates her self. Almost as much as she hates you right now. She can only think of how badly you fucked things up for her. To reject her when she's innocent, and to buy her when she's sullied and packaged. You could have had her at any time, and she hates you for it. But she can't free herself of you. She's weak, pathetic and poor. She blames you for everything and she can't stop loving you.  
You plop down on the couch, and she joins you. You kick off the pants and shoes with some difficulty. She tries her best not to look at it, as she reaches down into your lap. She tries her best not to gag, as she grabs the lumpy thick flesh in her hands. She tries not to think about how ridiculously, disgustingly far out the veins protrude from the surface. Tries not to think about how callused and rough it feels. As soon as she starts, you start screaming and things get very wet. She's shocked to look down and see the flesh tearing like soaked paper underneath her palm. She retracts her hand, and the skin comes with it in nasty clumps. One of her nails accidentally grazes an artery, as blood sprays out onto your face. Your screaming and babbling nonsense, as she throws up and shakes her hand wildly, flinging chunks of skin and blood all over the place. You're yelling "GET ME A TOWEL" over and over again as the dumb, godless jezebel just sits there and trembles, covered in vomit. You grab the cloth off the ground and cover yourself with your boxers. Bleeding through the thin material, you start to throw up, too, as she screams and runs for the door. A slam, and her screams fade down the hallway as she disappears from your life for good.  
Clutching yourself and screaming, voice pitch high and coarse like that of a little girl who has been crying for hours. Your boxers a wet rag wrapped around an explosion of pain.  
You're screaming "WHY GOD WHY?!"  
Hoping for an answer. Praying for a solution. Blaming others because you could never possibly grasp the possibility that your at fault for your own suffering. Just like all the others.  
You keep asking me why, but you did this to yourself.  
And it's what you get for not attending church anymore, you little turd.


End file.
